This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

My mother says the book is always better than the movie. She reads a lot, and not syrupy romance novels or lackluster detective fiction. Her favorites are the classics: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, The Lord of the Rings, A Christmas Carol, etc. Growing up, these were the stories I heard about, and I could find their dented spines lining the bookshelf. Even at a young age, I understood, on a visceral level, that beauty came from Europeans. The ladies of Renoir. The writings of Chesterton. The music of Holst. These were the building blocks in the foundation of my understanding of culture.

My high school experience was minimally racially diverse. One could say, and many have, that I was sheltered and naïve. But I see it as blessed. I was able to love and grow in my own culture fully without guilt or confusion. During the few encounters I had with nonwhites, which were primarily with blacks, I felt uncomfortable, as if I was talking to someone I did not and could not understand. I didn’t have words for it then, but what I was feeling was the gap of commonality between two distinctly different peoples.

The true barrage against my sensibilities began in college, where it was popular to be politically correct and posture against those pesky “conservatives.” The authors and artists I loved were now questioned ruthlessly, and, didn’t you know, Shakespeare was gay! My university, again, was not endowed with the gift that is racial diversity, although they have since dedicated themselves to purging this stain from their campus. I avoided the athletes in general, who for an inexplicable reason seemed to be more diverse than other groups on campus, and the few blacks that I interacted with were friendly. One in particular, being a part of a small group of comedians on campus, even described himself as the “only chocolate chip in the cookie.”

One Halloween season, each shift at the coffee shop I worked at dressed up as a different theme, and mine decided to be ninjas. My college’s new diversity staff, seeing our outfits, promptly reprimanded us. Our coverings were clearly a slap in the face of the Muslim students in our midst. Mind you, this was a Christian university. As the shift lead, I was about to share a few heated words with this kind Enlightenment Guru, but the manager of the coffee shop stopped me and said we needed to comply. I lost faith in my university that day. To declare homemade ninja outfits as culturally offensive was utter insanity. I just couldn’t take my higher education seriously after that.

My then-boyfriend, now spouse, and I talked a lot about this topic. We shared experiences and conclusions. But I still didn’t want to swallow that the points of view found on American Renaissance and Counter-Currents were correct. I hoped these websites were overstating things and that the races could still get along.

After college, I taught English. I only made it one year. My students were a mix of Mexican, white, and mulatto. They didn’t appreciate my expectations for having work completed or being able to read. I didn’t appreciate the complete lack of support from the staff. The content I was given to teach was preset, for the most part, and where I was to be teaching the evil of apartheid, I instead taught the history of the Boers and the Zulu. I’m surprised I wasn’t fired.

But there was one conversation that illustrates a larger problem — that being the refusal of white people to acknowledge the reality of race. A younger mulatto male staff assistant, who often talked about his personal problems to other staffers, was one day complaining about his inability to make decisions. I commented, before thinking, that it was perhaps his racial divide that left him not knowing which course to take. A darker black staffer, also young, immediately started laughing, and the lighter skinned mulatto just looked at me, smiled, and said, “You might be right.” I don’t recommend shooting your mouth off in this manner, and I’m again thankful my coworkers were so laid back. I doubt it would go over so well now. But it solidified a truth for me: Each race has a different identity. Mixing those identities can cause incredible pain and confusion. Ignoring those identities is living a lie.

My story isn’t raucous or earth-shattering. I share it mostly to give hope and impart a lesson that I am now endeavoring to fulfill: Take care with your children. Show them beautiful art. Listen to beautiful music. Read beautiful stories. I did not have a parent teaching me about bone density or rates of aggression. I had Jupiter playing on repeat and paintings of Sargent in my diary. And that was enough.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Use a pen name, stay under 1,200 words, and send it to us here.